


Clara with a Pearl Earring

by cageddove



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: AU, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-08 01:51:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5478884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cageddove/pseuds/cageddove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a Whouffaldi AU based on the book, "Girl with a Pearl Earring".</p><p>Clara Oswald goes to work as a maid in the household of the Doctor, a prominent painter. She is captivated by him and by his art, but does her best to clean his studio and keep out of his way. Then she begins to realize maybe he doesn't want her out of his way after all.</p><p>Rating might change with later chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Yesterday my father lost his trade. When he told me, I could see traces of tears on his face, and that was almost worse than his news. My father never cried.

It was just him and me at home, as my mother had passed many years ago. Death normally left a gaping hole in a household, but my father and I had both worked to close it up so that we could enjoy her memory without the burden of grief. We had a nice and quiet home life, but without his income, there was no one to support us.

“I found you a position,” he told me later in the day.

“That quickly?” I asked, trying to appear enthusiastic. I knew it was my duty to do what I could, but I had to learn to think of it as something I was pleased to do, rather than silently resenting him for not finding a new position for himself first.

“You are to be a maid for a gentleman. He and his wife will visit us today and make sure you are a good fit.”

I nodded, my stomach tying and untying itself at the prospect of being inspected by two strangers. What did I have to do to prove myself a worthy maid?

 

I was making dinner when I heard them at our doorstep. Well, I heard a woman with a chirping voice at least. My father let them in, and the woman seemed to loom over the kitchen with her tall stance, wild curls of hair, and darting eyes that took everything in. I could see her judgement of our home, of my father, of me. It was even in the way she held herself.

Her husband had a clean-shaven, long face, and he clasped his hands behind his back, looking much more comfortable than his wife to find himself in what probably looked like a closet compared to his home.

“This is the girl, I presume?” the woman asked, pointing at me as though I were simply a chair.

“Yes, my daughter, Clara,” my father said.

I could feel the couple rake their eyes over me. I watched the woman glance at my folded hands, at the wisps of hair that had fallen into my face while I cooked. The man’s gaze never seemed to leave my face. I met his cool eyes, and rather than bow my head and break the eye contact, I stared boldly back.

“Have we interrupted your dinner making?” he asked.

“I was preparing a soup.”

“But it is no inconvenience to have you here,” my father rushed to say.

“She’s not a very strong looking girl,” the woman said.

I already knew working for this woman was going to test me. “I assure you, I have strength,” I said, looking away from her husband to look at her fully in the face.

She fiddled with her dress, looking uncomfortable by the frankness of my gaze. It was only then that I noticed her stomach. She was expecting a baby.

“No matter,” she said offhandedly. “So you can come tomorrow?”

“She can,” my father said, nodding eagerly.

I turned back to the man. “How often must I visit?”

“You can visit your father on Sundays.”

I frowned, not quite understanding him. “I meant how often do you require me?”

“I intend for you to live with us and work six days out of the week. You can come home on Sundays only.”

“ _Live_ there? But what about my father?”

“I can take care of myself, Clara. They are offering us a generous opportunity.”

“Of course,” I said, shaking away my hesitance and forcing a smile. “I would be glad to come tomorrow.”

“It’s settled then,” the woman said. With a final, disgusted scan of the kitchen, she left.

Her husband nodded to my father and said, “Sir.”

“Thank you,” he replied. “You will not regret it. My daughter is hardworking.”

“Until tomorrow, Clara,” the man said, looking at me before he turned around and followed his wife outside.

My father closed the door behind them, and I let out a sigh. “I didn’t know I’d have to be away from home,” I said.

“I’m sorry, but it’s a miracle I could find the position at all, Clara. And that gentleman will treat you well, I am sure.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Do you remember a few years ago when we went to town hall and saw that beautiful painting of the little town?”

“I do,” I said, smiling as I remembered the cluttered homes and the ant-like people walking the streets. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“The man we just met, his name is The Doctor. He painted it. From now on, you’re in charge of cleaning his studio.”

I felt a strange sense of intimidation and pleasure, and thought perhaps I had been granted a worthwhile experience.

Yesterday my father lost his trade. When he told me, I could see traces of tears on his face, and that was almost worse than his news. My father never cried.

It was just him and me at home, as my mother had passed many years ago. Death normally left a gaping hole in a household, but my father and I had both worked to close it up so that we could enjoy her memory without the burden of grief. We had a nice and quiet home life, but without his income, there was no one to support us.

“I found you a position,” he told me later in the day.

“That quickly?” I asked, trying to appear enthusiastic. I knew it was my duty to do what I could, but I had to learn to think of it as something I was pleased to do, rather than silently resenting him for not finding a new position for himself first.

“You are to be a maid for a gentleman. He and his wife will visit us today and make sure you are a good fit.”

I nodded, my stomach tying and untying itself at the prospect of being inspected by two strangers. What did I have to do to prove myself a worthy maid?

 

I was making dinner when I heard them at our doorstep. Well, I heard a woman with a chirping voice at least. My father let them in, and the woman seemed to loom over the kitchen with her tall stance, wild curls of hair, and darting eyes that took everything in. I could see her judgement of our home, of my father, of me. It was even in the way she held herself.

Her husband had a clean-shaven, long face, and he clasped his hands behind his back, looking much more comfortable than his wife to find himself in what probably looked like a closet compared to his home.

“This is the girl, I presume?” the woman asked, pointing at me as though I were simply a chair.

“Yes, my daughter, Clara,” my father said.

I could feel the couple rake their eyes over me. I watched the woman glance at my folded hands, at the wisps of hair that had fallen into my face while I cooked. The man’s gaze never seemed to leave my face. I met his cool eyes, and rather than bow my head and break the eye contact, I stared boldly back.

“Have we interrupted your dinner making?” he asked.

“I was preparing a soup.”

“But it is no inconvenience to have you here,” my father rushed to say.

“She’s not a very strong looking girl,” the woman said.

I already knew working for this woman was going to test me. “I assure you, I have strength,” I said, looking away from her husband to look at her fully in the face.

She fiddled with her dress, looking uncomfortable by the frankness of my gaze. It was only then that I noticed her stomach. She was expecting a baby.

 “No matter,” she said offhandedly. “So you can come tomorrow?”

“She can,” my father said, nodding eagerly.  

I turned back to the man. “How often must I visit?”

“You can visit your father on Sundays.”

I frowned, not quite understanding him. “I meant how often do you require me?”

“I intend for you to live with us and work six days out of the week. You can come home on Sundays only.”

“ _Live_ there? But what about my father?”

“I can take care of myself, Clara. They are offering us a generous opportunity.”

“Of course,” I said, shaking away my hesitance and forcing a smile. “I would be glad to come tomorrow.”

“It’s settled then,” the woman said. With a final, disgusted scan of the kitchen, she left.

Her husband nodded to my father and said, “Sir.”

“Thank you,” he replied. “You will not regret it. My daughter is hardworking.”

“Until tomorrow, Clara,” the man said, looking at me before he turned around and followed his wife outside.

My father closed the door behind them, and I let out a sigh. “I didn’t know I’d have to be away from home,” I said.

“I’m sorry, but it’s a miracle I could find the position at all, Clara. And that gentleman will treat you well, I am sure.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Do you remember a few years ago when we went to town hall and saw that beautiful painting of the little town?”

“I do,” I said, smiling as I remembered the cluttered homes and the ant-like people walking the streets. I had found it mesmerizing. “What does that have to do with anything?”

"The man we just met, his name is The Doctor. He painted it. From now on, you’re in charge of cleaning his studio.”

I felt a strange sense of intimidation and pleasure, and thought perhaps I had been granted a worthwhile experience.


	2. Chapter 2

It wasn’t fair to judge them from a mere five minute initial meeting, but the Doctor and his wife hadn’t seemed like a doting couple, and so I was surprised when I reached their home the next morning and found out that they were not only expecting a child, but had a handful of rambunctious children already. Perhaps children had worn out their love, had stretched them too thin.

When I arrived, the other maid in the house greeted me. Her name was Amy, and she had the loveliest red hair I had ever seen.

“It’s honestly a relief to have you as my guide,” I told her. “I have no experience as a maid.”

“You’ll get accustomed soon enough,” she said. “Being a maid is all about routine. Just do your tasks and keep quiet, that’s my advice.”

She showed me around the house, and we didn’t run into either the Doctor or his wife, even when we walked by their bedroom. I felt a strange urge to linger at the bedroom doorstep, to peek into their private lives, but Amy tugged me along down the hall.

She also told me the Doctor’s wife was named River, but that to her face I was to address her as “Madam”. Creeping around their home and ogling at the portraits on the wall made me feel like an intruder. I thought I would feel at ease if only I were to be acknowledged by either the mistress or master of the house, and yet the idea also gave me a nervous feeling in my gut.

“One of your duties will be to fetch meat from the market. You can come with me today.”

I followed her to the market, which was bustling with people, and was ripe with the piercing smell of fish. Amy led me to the butcher’s stall, where there was a handsome, bearded man.

“Morning, Danny,” Amy said.

“Morning. Who’s this lovely lady?” He smiled warmly at me, and I returned a small smile and then my gaze flicked away to study the meat behind him.

“This is Clara,” Amy said. “She’s to pick up the meat from now on. I’m sorry to say that means you won’t be blessed with my pretty face much anymore.”

“That’s a real shame. I’m sure I’ll get used to Clara soon enough,” he said with a wink, and I bowed my head shyly.

While Amy continued to converse with him, I looked about the market, enjoying the boisterous chatter. When Danny handed me the ham, I said a quiet goodbye and followed Amy home.

When we got there, I was about to head down to my room in the cellar when someone called out to me. I turned to see River.

“I will escort you to my husband’s studio if you could please follow me.”

“Of course, madam.”

I walked up the stairs behind her and waited awkwardly at the studio door as she fumbled with the keys. When the door swung open, I stepped into a brightly lit open space. An easel stood near the back of the room, and there was a table in the middle of the room that had supplies laid out. I was no artist, but I got a sudden urge to pick up a brush and try my hand at a blank canvas. I think seeing other people be successful at something could draw you in to attempting it yourself.

“You are to sweep and dust, but you are not to move anything. He likes everything kept in its place. And try not to linger,” she added, and then left me alone.

As I cleaned, I imagined the Doctor locking himself away in the room and getting lost in his work. It was a nice space and at the far end of the upstairs corridor away from everyone else. Amy mentioned that the children weren’t allowed inside, warning me that they might try to take advantage of my ignorance and claim their father always let them hang about in the room.

After half the room had been cleaned, I set down the broom and went to look at the easel to assuage my curiosity. There was a woman sitting down in a red gown, a quiet sense of superiority on her face. Her hands lay across harp strings. I admired the colors and shadows, then got right back to work in case the Doctor walked in and found me snooping. Then I couldn’t shake the fear that he’d slip into the room and catch me off guard, so I did my cleaning and rushed downstairs.

 

Later that evening, as I was doing the laundry, River sought me out to say, “My husband is pleased with the state of his studio.”

I had the distinct feeling that she was an unwilling messenger bird. The words fell reluctantly out of her mouth, not because she didn’t agree, but because she resented having to seek me out herself to deliver the compliment. I found myself wondering why the Doctor couldn’t have sought me out himself. Was I too lowly a servant to be addressed by him? If that were true, why wasn’t that true about his wife? They were of the same status. It didn’t seem fair to me, but I brushed it aside.

I still hadn’t caught a glimpse of him the whole day, but his presence loomed over the home. Once or twice I caught myself standing in the hallway a little too long in hopes that he might appear from a door and run into me. I kept thinking back to his absorbing gaze from when I first met him, to his blue eyes with a tinge of gray that had stared at me so openly.

The next few days passed uneventfully, except that I was getting more accustomed to my daily chores. Anytime I cleaned the Doctor’s studio, I peeked at the painting to see if anything had changed. He added a pearl necklace, one pearl at a time. Another day the creases in her dress were made more profound. It was exhilarating to find the progressions and know that he had taken time to do them, that he had picked up a brush with his hand and furrowed his brow as he made delicate changes. I still never saw him, just occasionally heard his voice when the family ate dinner.

Then one day as I was washing the paint off his palette, I heard a creak and saw that the Doctor was at the door, observing me with a small smile.

“You have such a look of concentration while you work,” he said, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. “What do you think about when you clean?”

I must have looked frightened because he rushed to say, “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s quite all right. I… think about you when I clean,” I blurted, and then hearing how it sounded, I rushed to add, “I mean I think about your artistic process. This all must be an escape for you.”

He looked at me with amusement, and then walked over to me. I stood on one side of the table and he stood on the other.

“I wouldn’t call it an escape, necessarily. There are days where it imprisons me. My wife begs me to spend less time on an individual painting so I can make more and therefore sell more. But doubt and perfectionism too often steady my hand.”

Our gazes were locked and I felt vulnerable under his; felt as if when he looked at me, his artist’s eyes saw all of my imperfections. I realized I had unconsciously leaned forward while he answered, and had set down my rag. I hastily picked it back up and looked down at it to scrub away the remaining paint.

“I’ll soon be finished, sir.”

“Please, take your time. I rather enjoy watching you work. Your focus is inspiring.”

I was not sure how to respond, so I continued working. I could sense his eyes on my while I wiped down the table, and was afraid that in the stillness of the room, he could hear my heart battering. When I finished, I nodded at him and made my way for the door.

“You have remarkably wide eyes, Clara.”

I was tempted to pretend I hadn't heard and just leave, but instead I turned to face him. “I’ve been told that before.”

“Have a good evening,” he said in a low voice, and I fled the room before he saw my flushed expression.

 

 


End file.
